Summer on the Moon

by Adrian Fogelin

  He waited a full minute before sidling over to assess the damage. The board lay wheels up, the front edge of the deck cracked. Socko kicked it over. Stood on it. It still rolled. He pushed it back and forth under his foot.

  Should he break for home? Although the prickling sensation at the back of his neck was warning him big-time, he decided to hang tough and go right on making his survey.

  As he sped down Harvest Moon, the neck-prickle stung like a thousand needles.

  Mighty Ant, he thought, Mighty Ant. He heard words in the hum of the wheels. Indestructable. Radioactive. Glow-in-the-dark. Telekinetic. Kick-ass.

  He looked over his shoulder. The dark car was behind him somewhere, prowling.

  It’s just a car on a road, he reminded himself. Just a car on a road.

  When he hit the cul-de-sac at the end of Harvest Moon, he sped back, flew the short distance on Full Moon that would take him to the next spoke on the wheel, and hung another left.

  Again, no houses.

  Again, a cul-de-sac. He made a fast 180. His wheels screamed on Full Moon. Mighty ant. Just a car. Mighty ant. Just a car. He careened onto Blue Moon Drive.

  Suddenly houses as finished as his own lined both sides of the street.

  There were still no cars in the driveways, no lawns, no scattered toys, but no cul-de-sac either. This road came to a different conclusion.

  17

  A COMMUNITY OF ONE

  The sprawling brick building was so new, the mortar between the bricks was toothpaste white. In the middle of a flowerless flower bed stood a sign: MOON RIDGE ESTATES COMMUNITY CENTER AND CLUBHOUSE.

  Socko peered through a louvered window into a huge room with lines painted on the floor. It had to be a gym. Walking along the front of the building, he saw a kitchen, and what would probably be a game room, although so far all it had in it was a lone foosball table. He turned the corner and looked into more empty rooms. Offices, maybe. He couldn’t tell.

  When he went around the back of the building he almost ran into a large sign:

  MOON RIDGE ESTATES COMMUNITY GOLF COURSE

  ANOTHER HOLMES HOMES PROJECT

  But he barely noticed the sign. Behind it towered a heap of dead trees twice as tall as he was.

  Socko had never seen anything like this in the city. Street trees got distorted when the city’s bucket trucks lopped off limbs that grew too close to power lines, but the trees were always left standing.

  Dead leaves whispered in the hot wind as he walked around the enormous pile. He turned away, only to discover that this pile was just one of many. Broken trees littered acres and acres of bare dirt. It looked like the scenes of rain forest devastation he’d seen on National Geographic. He wished he could change the channel.

  He watched the ground as he walked, not even noticing that the dirt beneath his feet had turned to concrete until he stepped out over nothing. He wheeled his arms and threw his weight back. He had barely escaped falling into the deep end of the Olympic-size swimming pool promised on the brochure, which would’ve hurt, big-time. The pool was as dry as the dirt of Moon Ridge.

  He jogged along one side of the pool and jumped in at the shallow end. Dry leaves crunched under his feet as he ran down the slope.

  His back against the wall at the deep end, he slid down to a squat. Now he couldn’t see anything but the turquoise concrete of the pool and the lid of sky overhead. He felt like a specimen in a tank.

  For a place that put the word “community” on every sign, Moon Ridge sure was lifeless. He was about to feel sorry for himself, a community of one, when he happened to look up the long blue slope of the pool floor. His jaw dropped. “Genius idea!” The floor of the pool was a ramp, and the floor and walls curved where they met. All he had to do was get rid of the leaves and dirt.

  He found a piece of plywood behind the clubhouse. First he scraped the dry leaves into piles, then used the board as a dustpan. Sweat was dripping off his bangs by the time he got rid of the leaves and twigs that littered the floor. All that was left on that long smooth ramp was a fine layer of dust.

  He stood on the skateboard on the edge at the shallow end.

  Before he could lose his nerve, he stepped on the tail of the board, put his other foot on the front, and dropped in.

  The chilled air in the house iced his sweaty skin.

  “When you am-scray, you don’t mess around.” The old man closed the book in his lap.

  In Socko’s absence the General had put on a sweater. Just looking at him made Socko hot.

  The old man straightened the position of the book on his knees, as if the alignment were critical. “Sorry I was fighting with your mom.”

  “That’s okay.” Socko fell into a chair. “I was sort of fighting with her myself.”

  “True. Who in the Sam Hill is Damien?”

  It took a good twenty minutes to explain his best friend, but the General held his tongue for once and listened. Socko talked about how the Tarantulas were after Damien, and about how he hadn’t been able to reach him.

  The General sat quiet, staring at the cover of the book in his lap.

  Socko took a chance. “He could ride home with Mom, hide out here a while.”

  “Two boys? Here?” The book slid to the floor. “Now there’s a recipe for noise and foolishness!”

  “That stuff about Rapp almost dropping him off the roof? I wasn’t making it up! Damien could die if he stays there.”

  The General squinted up at him with his one eye. “Listen, Sacko, there’s such a thing as being too old for this life, and I am. All I want anymore is peace and quiet. I’ve done my part.”

  “But Damien’s just a kid and he’s in trouble!”

  “I appreciate that, son, but he’s somebody else’s problem.”

  “Whose? Nobody cares about him but me.”

  “Guess that makes him your problem, doesn’t it?” He turned the chair toward the window.

  The old guy was useless! Socko left him staring into the bone-dry yard and went up to his room, where he lay on his cot. That didn’t help. He went back downstairs to try again.

  “Sir?” The General was still staring out the window.

  “About time you came back. I’m bored.”

  “Whose problem is that?”

  The General turned and spat in the garbage can. “Yours.” He fished the deck of cards out of the pocket of his sweater, but stopped as he zeroed in on the bruise on Socko’s arm. “How did you get that bruise Delia Marie was all over you about? It’s getting pretty ripe.”

  “I walked across a beam in one of the houses.”

  “And fell, I assume. You could’ve busted your gourd.” He took another look at the bruise. “You got more guts than I gave you credit for. I’m a little worried about your brains, though.” He slid the cards out of the box. “You ready to lose a few hands of gin rummy?”

  Socko lost—and won—more hands of gin rummy than he could keep track of. The afternoon faded.

  “The bag of used burgers is late,” the General announced.

  “Delia Marie is late,” Socko corrected him. Maybe she was checking on Damien. Or maybe not. “I hope Manuel’s car didn’t crap out on her.”

  “Me too. If the car crapped out she’ll be really late. Then we’ll have to reheat the burgers in the microwave from dead-cold. Makes the buns all rubbery.”

  Socko lowered his cards. “Is that all you care about?”

  “Get older and you realize, it’s the simple pleasures. Eating. Sleeping—even if it’s just eating greasy burgers and sleeping sitting up.”

  “What about caring about other people? Something might’ve happened to her.” Socko was playing a losing hand and imagining an eighteen-wheeler plowing into Delia’s multicolored car when the multicolored car pulled into the driveway, tailpipe smoking. He tossed his cards down on the table.

  By the time he made it to at the car, he was panting. “How’s Damien?”

  Delia climbed out and unstuck her polyester pants fro
m the backs of her thighs. “I tried to check on him, but I couldn’t get into our old building. I turned in the key, remember?”

  “What about Mr. Marvin?”

  She waved a hand. “He got a job, or got evicted, I don’t know. Anyway, there was no one to let me in.” She hung her purse over her shoulder, picked up a couple of plastic sacks, and trudged up the walk.

  “Mom?” Socko danced around her until he was between her and the front door. “You gotta take me to work with you tomorrow! I’ll find a way in.”

  She planted her feet wide. “That is one thing I am not doing, ever. I have enough to worry about with the way Rapp is treating Junebug. You are never going to be anywhere near that thug again.” She reached up and put her hand on his cheek. “When school starts you’ll make another best friend.”

  He pulled away from the hand on his cheek. “I don’t want another best friend.”

  As soon as they got inside, the General lifted the Phat sack off her arm and peered into it gloomily. “Bun Busters. Cold.” He balanced the sack of burgers in his lap and began to roll toward the microwave.

  “Wait! See what else?” Delia dug in her purse. “Apples!”

  “Why are they individually wrapped?” the General asked as she set them in his lap.

  “Mr. Donatelli always wraps them. They’re more sanitary.”

  “What did you pay for these two sanitary apples?”

  “Seventy-five cents each.”

  “Either you’re a fool or he’s a thief—or both. Find a real grocery store, Delia Marie.” The General shook his head and rolled toward the kitchen. Halfway there one of Mr. Donatelli’s sanitary apples fell out of his lap and bounced across the floor. The General didn’t even slow down.

  “That’s the last time I buy you fruit! And I don’t want to hear another word about your plumbing!”

  “You better hope that hearing about it is the worst that happens!” he shouted back.

  Delia watched until he disappeared into the kitchen. “Socko!” she said softly, opening the second bag that hung heavily on her arm. “Take a look!”

  As she held the bag out to him she broke into a big smile. “What is it?” He looked, but all he could see was the top of another bag.

  “Grass seed! I also got a rake. This Home Depot place is unbelievable! They have everything for your house and yard.”

  “Mom, did you really try to check on Damien?”

  “Of course I did, Socko. I wouldn’t lie to you. But come on, what do you say?” She shook the bag of grass seed. “You want to help me plant a lawn?”

  “What about Phase 2?” asked Socko. “They’re going to give us a lawn.”

  “And Santy Claus is going to bring you a pony!” the old man called from the kitchen.

  18

  THE HOUSE ACROSS THE STREET

  Delia stood in the middle of the dirt lawn, gripping the handle of a rake so new the white bar code label glowed in the dim light. “You didn’t wake up you-know-who, did you?”

  “Nope.” Socko sat on the front step to put on the shoes he’d carried down the stairs so he wouldn’t wake up you-know-who. A wasted effort. “If his own snoring didn’t wake him up, nothing can.”

  Delia waved a hand. “I’m thinking flower beds along the driveway.”

  It was so dark out, Socko could barely see the driveway.

  “And my hedge right about here.” She scratched a line in the dirt with the rake handle. “Everything else is going to be lawn.”

  “Do you know how to plant a lawn?” he asked.

  “The bag’s got instructions.”

  Socko read the print on the back of the bag by the light over the front door. “We don’t have a spreader or a roller, and it’s summer. It says right here, ‘plant in late spring.’”

  “It is what it is.” Delia handed him the rake. “Here. Fluff up the dirt.”

  “Fluff up the dirt,” he mumbled. But he figured helping her might convince her to do something more than “try” to check on Damien, so he scrabbled the tines of the rake across the ground. The dust rose. He sneezed.

  Delia followed him, flinging seeds into the air. “See? Who needs a spreader?”

  When all the seeds had been flung, Socko consulted the bag again. “To ‘ensure good contact between seed and soil,’ we need a roller filled with water to make it heavy.”

  “We’re heavy,” said Delia. “We’ll stomp the seed in.” They took baby steps back and forth across the yard, stomping the seed in.

  “Are you gonna find out about Damien today?” Socko asked, mincing toward the road.

  “Yeah, yeah. Keep stomping.”

  Delia and Socko were heading in opposite directions on their stomping mission, so at first only Socko saw the truck.

  “Why are you not stomping?” she called over her shoulder.

  “Mom?”

  Delia turned and was caught in the truck’s headlights. “Take a look at that!” She came and stood behind him, her hands on his shoulders. “That moving van is huge. No one owns that much stuff!”

  The behemoth moving van stopped right in front of their house. Socko remembered the General’s comment about Santa Claus. But with a series of high-pitched beeps, the truck backed into the driveway of the house across the street.

  The man in the passenger seat got out, unfolded a piece of paper, and smoothed it against the side of the van.

  “They’ve got so much stuff they need a map to show where to put it,” Delia whispered.

  The first thing the men pushed down the ramp was huge and wrapped in padded blankets. It had three thin black legs. Although the men moved it carefully, when it hit the hard surface of the driveway, it boomed a hollow note. “You think it’s a grand piano?” Delia breathed.

  A china cabinet followed the piano down the ramp, then a cushy leather chair, then a dozen cartons so big a couple of homeless guys could have slept in them with room to spare.

  “So they have a lot of stuff.” His mother squeezed his shoulders. “We’ll have a lawn before they do. Keep stomping.”

  Socko continued to stomp, but not with the same vigor. The parade of stuff kept him distracted. And stomping seed in front of the moving guys was embarrassing.

  “Sweet,” said Socko, watching the men carry a flat screen TV as big as their picture window down the ramp.

  “Study,” said Delia, still stomping. Delia’s recommended route to everything he wanted had been reduced to that single word.

  He threw up his hands. “What’s wrong with ‘win the lottery’?”

  “Hey,” said Delia as the men carried a Ping-Pong table into the house. “Maybe these people got a kid your age.”

  Yeah, a kid with tons of stuff. All Socko had was a stop sign with a bullet hole through the O. Impressive.

  Computers … a hutch … three more armchairs …

  A sound from inside his own mostly empty house caught his attention. The General was at the window, slapping the glass with his palm.

  “I’ll see what he wants.” Socko let himself into the house.

  The General pointed at the thick king-size mattress the moving men were carrying. “I want to live over there.”

  “Me too.”

  “What are you and Delia Marie doing out there, anyway? An Indian rain dance?”

  “Gardening.” Socko nuked a mug of water, added coffee crystals, and stirred. He handed it to his great-grandfather. “You want something to eat?” He was in no hurry to go back to looking stupid in front of the moving van guys.

  “No, but if you get me my electric razor I’ll cut off those girl curls of yours, give you a GI haircut.”

  “Thought you were a cook, not a barber.”

  “In the armed services you do a little bit of everything.”

  A GI haircut would drive Delia nuts. A shaved head or a buzz cut so short it was more scalp than hair was popular with Rapp’s gang. “I better let Mom cut my hair.”

  “If she doesn’t do it soon, we’ll have to change yo
ur name to Betty.”

  Socko went back outside.

  “Take over.” Delia pumped the front of her blouse in and out with one hand. “I’m running late and I’m sweaty as a fry cook.”

  Great. Now he got to look stupid all by himself.

  The last thing to come out of the truck was a basketball hoop. It took both guys twisting it back and forth on its heavy base to walk it up the driveway. They looked over the papers on a clipboard, then locked the house. “Keep up the good work,” the driver called to Socko as he swung himself up into the cab.

  “Whatever it is you’re doing,” added the second mover as he hopped in on the passenger side.

  The van pulled into the street and turned right.

  Socko listened until the engine’s growl became silence, then sprinted across the street to get a better look at the new people’s stuff. The sun was fully up now. He shaded his eyes with one hand and peered up at the basketball hoop. It had a glass backboard and a shot clock welded to the pole. It was easy to see that a street-bunged basketball had never swished through its white net.

  Socko was a city kid, and he knew he should be slick at shooting hoops. But he wasn’t. The court at the park was Tarantula territory, so he didn’t go anywhere near it if he could help it.

  He pictured the scene in his near future when the kid who owned the hoop challenged him to a game of H-O-R-S-E and he embarrassed himself completely.

  Man, he hated this place.

  19

  NOT A SUSPECT

  Socko knew he was going dangerously fast. He didn’t care. He rode the skateboard up the short wall at the shallow end of the pool, catching some air before doing a 180.

  He was ticked. His mom got him out of bed way before O-dark thirty to stomp grass seed, and he rolled right out, didn’t even complain. But when he begged for a ride back to the old neighborhood to check on Damien, her answer was to gun the car engine and point at the basketball hoop as she drove away. “Looks like you’ll make a new friend soon!” Steaming mad, Socko had marched inside and asked the old man where he kept his electric razor, and the “girl curls” had hit the floor.